Ralph Waldo Emerson

The Sphinx

The Sphinx is drowsy, Her wings are furled: Her ear is heavy, She broods on the world. “Who’ll tell me my secret, The ages have kept? I awaited the seer While they slumbered and

Suum Cuique

The rain has spoiled the farmer’s day; Shall sorrow put my books away? Thereby are two days lost: Nature shall mind her own affairs, I will attend my proper cares, In rain, or sun,

Merlin II

The rhyme of the poet Modulates the king’s affairs, Balance-loving nature Made all things in pairs. To every foot its antipode, Each color with its counter glowed, To every tone beat answering tones, Higher

Threnody

The south-wind brings Life, sunshine, and desire, And on every mount and meadow Breathes aromatic fire, But over the dead he has no power, The lost, the lost he cannot restore, And, looking over

Give All To Love

Give all to love; Obey thy heart; Friends, kindred, days, Estate, good fame, Plans, credit, and the muse; Nothing refuse. ‘Tis a brave master, Let it have scope, Follow it utterly, Hope beyond hope;

Fate

That you are fair or wise is vain, Or strong, or rich, or generous; You must have also the untaught strain That sheds beauty on the rose. There is a melody born of melody,

Forbearance

Hast thou named all the birds without a gun; Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk; At rich men’s tables eaten bread and pulse; Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust;

Good-by

Good-by, proud world, I’m going home, Thou’rt not my friend, and I’m not thine; Long through thy weary crowds I roam; A river-ark on the ocean brine, Long I’ve been tossed like the driven

Ode To Beauty

Who gave thee, O Beauty! The keys of this breast, Too credulous lover Of blest and unblest? Say when in lapsed ages Thee knew I of old; Or what was the service For which

Merlin I

Thy trivial harp will never please Or fill my craving ear; Its chords should ring as blows the breeze, Free, peremptory, clear. No jingling serenader’s art, Nor tinkle of piano strings, Can make the

Uriel

IT fell in the ancient periods Which the brooding soul surveys, Or ever the wild Time coin’d itself Into calendar months and days. This was the lapse of Uriel, Which in Paradise befell. Once,

Each And All

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown, Of thee, from the hill-top looking down; And the heifer, that lows in the upland farm, Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm; The sexton tolling

Two Rivers

Thy summer voice, Musketaquit, Repeats the music of the rain; But sweeter rivers pulsing flit Through thee, as thou through the Concord Plain. Thou in thy narrow banks art pent: The stream I love

Alphonso Of Castile

I Alphonso live and learn, Seeing nature go astern. Things deteriorate in kind, Lemons run to leaves and rind, Meagre crop of figs and limes, Shorter days and harder times. Flowering April cools and

The Apology

Think me not unkind and rude, That I walk alone in grove and glen; I go to the god of the wood To fetch his word to men. Tax not my sloth that I
Page 1 of 41234